


Echoes of the Heart

by Kay (sincere)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Woobie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sincere/pseuds/Kay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Sif had dreamed about a perfect life. But no one leads a perfect life. Everyone is flawed. Everyone comes to need things they never asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of the Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I see people complaining about how the new movie is destroying her character, I get angry and just want to write infinity Sif fics.
> 
> SO! Anonymous on Tumblr requested, "Sif loves the rush of battle lust in her veins, but fighting is not the same without the men she most loves at her side." Since no pairing(s) were specified, I went with "all of them, with some ambiguity".

Her fist crashed into a man's face with sword-hilt still held tight in her fingers, and he went tumbling to the ground with a cry of shock and pain, but before he had even stumbled back on his feet she was already turning, bringing her sword to bear on her next opponent. Her blood pumped through her veins, fast and hot; keeping her alert for any sound or movement that might be a threat, all her senses honed and all her being focused, razor-sharp.

There was a time that this would have satisfied her. That this would even have been what she _wanted_. One woman against the world, facing down any who thought themselves a match for her, proving them all wrong.

That had been her dream, after all.

A man bellowed behind her, rushing up to her with mace raised. Sif dodged neatly under the obviously-telegraphed blow and lifted a leg to kick him in the back, sending him sprawling onto his own weapon. A stealthier opponent took advantage of her distraction, wrapping a thick, muscled arm around her and lifting her off her feet. Her heartbeat sped until she could feel it in her throat, but she squirmed in his grip, pulling her legs up and tangling them into his until he was in danger of falling, and with his attention distracted she jerked back, driving her elbow into the ribs exposed by his chestplate, and then into the side of his head when he stumbled.

A younger girl had crowed, _"I need no one else. No protectors, no champions. I can match anyone who comes against me, and someday all will know!"_

Her dream had come true. Sif charged at the last man, countered the swing of his sword with her own, and then put her fist square in his jaw. A kick to his knee had him on the ground.

And then it was done, the field cleared of all enemies and she had never used her blade to cut any of them. The spectators were rising to their feet, applauding, cheering their Lady Sif. She lifted her hand to her forehead to wipe away the sweat on her brow, and then straightened up to smile at the watchers brightly.

The victory felt good. It always felt good; the surge of triumph when she won, the admiration of those around her, the grudging respect of those who fell against her. Every time she was reminded, _This is why I do this._

But it felt hollow, empty.

A younger girl had been right. She needed no one else, and given time and dedication, all _would_ know.

But, like all young people, she had also not understood what she asked for.

 

"I hate it when Fandral isn't the one to blame for everything going wrong," she said, conversational, though her voice was strained with effort. She had been fighting for over an hour now, holding off waves upon waves of enemy, and even trolls could eventually wear down a more powerful foe through sheer numbers.

Hogun did not respond, which was no indicator of his level of strain one way or the other. Sif spared him a glance, and took him in with a practiced measurement -- the coiled stress in his every tense muscle, rigidly policing himself to keep from any slip the way that he only did when he knew he was wearing thin enough that it was a danger.

They were in a bad situation, but they could not retreat. Not until Fandral returned with Volstagg. They had to guard this exit; if they fell back, the others would have no way to escape.

It was unbearably frustrating to be in this situation because of someone else's mistake. But she knew that Volstagg would be there for her if it had been her mistake; she knew all of them would.

"He's just -- very easy to blame," she said tightly, taking another swing at the encroaching trolls; some skittered back, one fell under her blade, blood arcing through the air. "And he -- rarely if ever seems repentant, so -- I feel no guilt in harping on it until I am over it."

Hogun grunted, and responded with a thin, "Volstagg will be drunk an hour after we're out from here. Do not -- harp on him then."

She snorted. "Please. I don't want him blubbering either."

Sif felt it bolstering her, and sometimes wondered if the others felt the same way: that the banter and the complaints energized her when she felt herself falter, and that when it was done the teasing was what kept her coming back, determined that the next time would be better. There was a strength in their unity that she did not have on her own.

"I really don't know what the three of you do when I'm not around," she said blithely.

Sif shot him a sidelong glance just in time to see the small smile cross his lips, before he said simply, "We manage," and then, after knocking a pair of trolls off the bridge, he added, "But it is harder to perform a rescue _and_ guard an exit at the same time."

"Ho!" cried Volstagg's voice, and she felt some of the tension around her heart ease, strength flooding back into her.

"Wonderful. They've arrived," she said to Hogun, loud enough to be overheard. "Now I'll have to fight twice as hard to cover their mistakes." And she lunged into the enemy with renewed energy.

 

She was exhausted. Sif lifted a hand to her forehead, rubbing her temple and thinking back on the battle; on what had been lost, and what mistakes she had made. It seemed innumerable, unbearable.

A heavy footstep behind her made her glance back sharply, but it was Thor's familiar boot, and she redirected her attention forward again before she had to look at him. "Come to check up on me?" she asked, keeping her voice light.

"You did not seem to be celebrating," he said with a light smile, starting to ease down to the ground beside her, leaning his weight against one knee. "I could not let that pass. We have won a great victory here today, Sif."

It was true, and yet it felt like so many steps backward. She looked out over the battlefield, darkened by blood and fire, littered with the corpses of the enemy army. The Asgardians had been victorious, as they ever were. Their history was riddled with such victories, and Sif could not even count how many of them she had personally lived through.

"It is not the same," she murmured. "Is it?"

Thor turned his face to her, curiosity written on his chiseled features. She always felt a little skip in her heartbeat when those intensely blue eyes were focused on her; every time, but this time it was only a thud, muted. The battle had affected her more deeply than she would have liked.

"You mean..." he began reluctantly, and she could see the shadow come over him as well. "With our number incomplete?"

She shifted, fingers curling over her trousers. "We are better off without him," she said, trying to keep the coldness out of her voice. Thor still loved Loki, and she always struggled not to force him to defend the man he still called a brother. Her gaze dropped to her boots. "But still, I cannot feel the same... satisfaction in this victory."

Loki had been her friend once -- perhaps against her better judgment, but that could not change that he had been, for a _long_ time. And on some level, it felt as if Thor's choice of words had been apt: this was _incomplete_.

Thor chuckled, looking away. After a beat, he said, "Such words do not suit you, Sif. I seem to recall a young girl insisting that she needed no one else."

Sif closed her eyes. "And so I do not," she pronounced proudly, to make him laugh again, before murmuring, "But what we need is not _all_ that is important."

She needed air and water and food. She did not _need_ companionship, and she did not need men, and she certainly did not need a full complement of a very specific set of men simply to be around her.

But she _wanted_ , so badly. When she thought of the way it had used to be, when these battles had been waged with her dearest friends around her, the Warriors Three and Thor and Loki, the men who had raised her or grown up with her, who had given her centuries of life and love and confidence and failure and heartbreak... It made her sick to imagine a future without that. That was the moment when she hated Loki the most, because the easy comfort of those days was gone, and she would never have it back.

"The Midgardians say that time heals all wounds," Thor said, but his voice was a whisper, lies fading lost in the air between them.


End file.
